THE 

BELOVED 
STRANGER 


BOOKS  BY  WITTER  BYNNER 

AN  ODE  TO  HARVARD 

TIGER 

THE  LITTLE  KING 

THE  NEW  WORLD 

IPHIGENIA  IN  TAURIS 

GRENSTONE  POEMS 

A  CANTICLE  OF  PRAISE 


THE 
BELOVED   STRANGER 

Two  Books  of  Song 

&   a  Divertisement 
for  the  Unknown  Lover 

By 

WITTER  BTNNER 

With  a  Preface  by 

William  Marion  Reedy 


New  York 
ALFRED  •  A  •  KNOPF 

1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF,  INC. 


PRINTED   IN    THE   UNITED    STAT1S   Of   AMERICA 


MAIM 


INSCRIPTION 

TO  ROSE  O'NEILL 


HAVE  YOU  ASCENDED  STAIRS 

NOT  TOUCHING  THEM, 

EASILY  TURNING  AND  HOLDING  OUT  YOUR  PROUD 

HAND 

TO  BEAR  WITNESS? — 
WONDERING   WHY   YOU    HAD    NOT   ALWAYS    DONE 

THIS  THING, 
SO  SIMPLE  AN  ASCENT, 
FLOATING   OVER   PEOPLE, 
SMILING  FOR  THEM? 

AND  HAVE  YOU  CEASED  AND  FLOWN  NO  LONGER, 

WAKED  AGAIN, 

BOUND  BY  THE  WOUND  OF  YOUR  CHAIN? 

ASCEND  WITH  ME  THEN, 

BE  WITH  ME  IN  THESE  SONGS 

HOLD  OUT  YOUR  PROUD  HAND 
TO  BEAR  WITNESS. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PREFACE 

by  William  Marion  Reedy 

BOOK  I 

INSCRIPTION 

"  You  come  with  the  light  .  .  .' 

VEILS  3 
THE  WAVE  4 
THE  VOICE  5    t.- 
THE  STRANGER  6 
DREAM  7 
ROOFS  8 
WONDER  9 
THE  WALL  10    *" 
MAGIC  ii 
LIGHTNING  \& 
WINGS  13      * 
CHERRY-BLOSSOMS  14 
HEMISPHERES  15 
HORSES  1 6 
THE  WIND  17 
THE  BLUE- JAY  18 
TREE-TOADS  19 


THE  VALLEY  20 
NAKEDNESS  21 
DARKNESS  22 
FEAR  23 
A  SIGH  24 
SINGING  25 
SUMMONS  26 
MIST  27 
CLIMBING  28 
CRYSTAL  29 
DUSK  30 
THE  BOATMEN  31 
THE  CATARACT  32 
AUTUMN  33 
WEARINESS  34 
THE  HOUR  35 
LAMENT  36 
THE  SKELETON  37 
THE  CROWN  38 
THE  MOON  39 
AN  END  40 

DIFERTISEMENT 

"  I  change  my  ceremony  .  .  ." 

I  CHANGE  43 
I  REMEMBER  44    < 
I  DRIFT  45 
I  GAMBLE  46 
I  LEER  47 


I  COMPUTE  48 
I  STAB  49 
I  LISTEN  50 
I  LEAP  51  ^ 
I  HOPE  52  «^ 
I  EVADE  53 
I  FIND  54 
I  WONDER  55 
I  DRINK  56 
I  KILL  57 
I  ACCUSE  58 
I  URGE  59 
I  ANSWER  60 
I  LAUGH  61 
I  SIGH  62 
I  FORGET  63 
I  EXCLAIM  64 
I  LOOK  65 
I  ENTER  66 
I  SWIM  67    • 
I  LEAN  68      r 
I  VANISH  69 

BOOK  II 

"  Like  an  arrow  you  come 

THE  CANYON  73 
BIRDS  74 

RUINS  75  <s 

THE  ARROW  76    »-- 


THE  DUST  77 

CACTUS  78 

A  GHOST  79 

TOUCH  80 

No  EASE  81    *- 

LAUREL  82 

SNOWS  83 

CERTAINTY  84 

GATES  85 

THE  JEWEL  86 

PAIN  88 

OPIUM  89 

THE  FIRE-MOUNTAIN  90 

FLAME  91 

FIRE  92 

THE  DEAD  93 

CANDLES  94 

PEACE  96 

THE  BELL  97 

THE  CUP  98 

THE  GOD  99 


PREFACE 

by 
WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 


Preface 

Not  in  explanation  of  these  u  Songs  to  the  Be 
loved  Stranger  "  is  this  brief  introduction  written, 
for  poetry  that  does  not  explain  itself  may  be 
something  else,  but  it  is  not  poetry.  If  there  be 
those  who  do  not  get  from  these  lyrics  something 
of  the  poet's  heart  and  something  of  their  own 
hearts  and  thoughts  it  is  because  those  persons 
fail  in  the  one  thing  which  the  reader  of  verse 
must  bring  to  the  reading  in  order  to  get  any 
thing  out  of  it  —  imagination.  For  poetry  is 
written  to  the  poet  that  is  in  man,  and  to  none 
other.  I  doubt  though  that  these  poems  —  or 
this  poem  —  will  fail  of  appeal  to  anyone  compe 
tent  to  comprehend  a  presentation  of  beauty  and 
of  passion. 

These  verses  are  not  so  much  narrations  of  inci 
dents,  descriptions  of  scenes,  analyses  of  moods 
or  emotions,  as  frames  or  forms  to  be  clothed 
upon  with  the  subjective  evocations  they  strike 
from  the  reader.  They  may  be  said  to  be  images 
or  pictures,  but  those  images  or  pictures  are  more 
than  they  obviously  contain.  There  is  that  in 
— xi — 


them,  by  virtue  of  something  like  chemic  action 
among  the  rhythms  and  phrases  and  words,  which 
is  in  effect  an  aura  of  impressions  hovering  over 
them  and  taking  form  in  subjective  creations  by 
the  reader.  The  verses  may  be  said,  in  literary 
phrase,  to  be  symbols  searching  out  and  bringing 
to  experience  meanings  the  relations  of  which  to 
the  actual  speech  are  no  more  explainable,  though 
no  whit  less  actual  and  real,  than  those  experi 
ences,  moods,  fancies,  adventures  upon  which  our 
minds  are  set  off  by  certain  collocations  of  notes 
or  tones  in  music.  They  carry  an  oversoul.  I 
should  say  that  the  densest  person  imaginable 
reading  this  work  would  sense  the  fact  that  the 
singer  is  one  who  is  translated  out  of  space  and 
time  by  the  passionate  experiences  he  undergoes 
and  is  as  strange  to  himself  as  the  unknown  lover 
is  to  him  in  a  world  of  he  knows  not  how  many 
more  dimensions  than  here  we  know.  There  is 
an  atmosphere  here  in  which  the  realities  are  de- 
materialized,  the  persons  disembodied.  I  think 
that  this  eerie  impression  is  the  better  attained  in 
hearing  the  poems  well  read  than  in  reading  them 
oneself.  Here  are  colors,  sounds,  scents  even, 
that  seize  upon  you  and  waft  you  away  to  a  re 
gion  wherein  those  colors,  sounds,  scents,  reveal 
their  over-meaning.  Where  the  poems  are  most 
sensuous  in  their  quality  they  are  so  as  if  the  pas 
sion  somehow  is  decarnalized  by  its  own  intensity: 


it  becomes  an  incandescent,  varicolored  wraith 
hovering  over  its  expression  in  the  mere  words. 
So,  when,  in  the  course  of  the  adventure  here 
subtly  and  symbolically  developed,  there  occur 
accesses  of  disgust  over  disillusion  and  deceit,  the 
extravagances  of  simile  and  metaphor  attain  a  gro- 
tesqueness  that  is  shocking  and  mocking.  These 
grotesques  become  so  much  in  contrast,  so  much 
out  of  key  that  they  are  comic,  and  the  comicality 
is  the  very  essence  of  ironic  bitterness.  It  is  when 
one  comes  upon  these  things  that  one  is  made  to 
realize  by  shock  the  completeness  with  which  he 
has  been  transported  out  of  himself  into  a  realm 
of  otherwhereness  of  which  the  here  is  but  a  faint 
prefiguration.  These  "  Songs  to  the  Beloved 
Stranger  "  are  all  magic.  They  say  more  than 
is  in  the  mere  words.  They  have  the  character 
istic  of  the  hokku,  the  tanka,  the  ageku.  _Th_e 
Chino-Japanese  influence  is  impressed  upon  them 
even  where  it  is  not  clearly  visible  and  audible  in 
the  scenes  and  incidents.  They  are  not  imitations, 
however,  but  absorptions  of  the  Eastern  spirit, 
that  spirit  compelling  the  manner.  They  say 
more  than  is  in  the  words.  They  present  outlines 
of  pictures  which  call  up  in  the  reader  thoughts 
and  feelings  wherewith  to  fill  in  those  outlines  with 
the  story.  The  mere  language  is  not  so  much  as 
are  its  subtle  connotations  with  the  limitless  scope 
of  fancy,  suggested  by  its  phrases,  its  music.  It 
— xiii — 


is  as  if  the  poet  sings  something  in  part,  then 
ceases  before  completing  the  theme,  and  the  reader 
takes  the  key  and  finishes  the  aposeiopesis.  He 
does  this  not  only  in  particulars  but  in  generalities. 
The  poet,  as  it  were,  states  some  fact  or  facts, 
however  material  or  spiritual,  and  does  it  in  such 
fashion  that  it  moves  the  reader  intellectually  or 
emotionally  —  the  latter  possibly  more  than  the 
former  —  to  universalize  it.  The  method  is  by 
intensification.  There  is  an  ascetic  spareness  of 
words.  Little  is  directly  told,  but  in  a  way  to 
make  the  reader  see,  hear,  feel,  know  much.  The 
simplicity  brings  out  spontaneous  collaborative  re 
sponse  in  the  reader  —  that  reader  in  whom  there 
is  always  a  poet,  else  there  would  be  no  writers  of 
poetry  at  all.  j These  "Songs  to  the  Beloved 
Stranger  "  tell  a  story  of  love,  disappointment, 
disgust,  loss,  recovery  of  self  and  of  the  ideal  that 
seemed  to  vanish,  moving  finally  to  an  end  in  para- 
disal  calm.  /  The  poet's  experiences  displayed  and 
developed  in  the  moods  growing  out  of  them,  un 
fold  with  clearness  as  the  rapport  of  the  reader  is 
perfected  by  the  hypnotic  spell  of  tone  and  color. 
Their  objectiveness  becomes  subjective  in  the 
reader,  who  then  recreates  the  subjective  to  a 
new  objectivity.  It  is  in  this  that  these  poems 
most  resemble  music. 

This  book  of  verse  is  not  a  tour  de  force,  even 
though  it  be  so  different  from  those  other  works 
— xiv — 


upon  which  rests  Mr.  Witter  Bynner's  already  dis 
tinguished  reputation.  Those  who  appreciated 
"An  Ode  to  Harvard,"  "The  New  World," 
"  Grenstone  Poems,"  or  his  plays,  "  Tiger,"  u  The 
Little  King,"  "  Iphigenia  in  Tauris  " — •  works  of 
a  wide  range  in  subject  and  manner  —  will  find 
here  not  much  of  the  Bynner  they  know.  In  those 
works  he  is  the  poet,  but  not  as  now.  He  was 
more  factual.  In  his  lyrics  he  was  a  bit  Browning- 
gerque.  Somewhat  didactic  he  was,  too,  and  fas 
tidious  in  his  intellectuality.  In  his  plays  he  was 
swift  and  sure,  and  his  "  Iphigenia  in  Tauris  " 
pleased  me,  at  least,  for  its  easy,  off-hand,  unla 
bored  simulation  of  a  Greek  he  made  no  preten 
sion  of  translating.  All  through  his  poems  Mr. 
Bynner  has  faint  traces  of  that  which  we  find  in 
this  book,  but  they  are  discoverable  only  in  the 
backward  glance,  from  the  coign  of  present  knowl 
edge. 

No  one  thought  of  Witter  Bynner  when 
"  Spectra  "  was  published  in  1916  or  when  more 
"  spectric  "  poems  were  published  later.  "  Spec 
tra  "  was  put  forth  as  the  work  of  Emanuel 
Morgan  and  Anne  Knish;  the  later  volume 
owned  a  third  collaborator.  These  "  spectrics  " 
were  received  with  a  loud  guffaw,  as,  chiefly, 
they  deserved.  Clearly  they  were  parodies, 
burlesques  upon  the  works  of  the  imagists, 
H.  D.,  Richard  Aldington,  John  Gould  Fletcher 


and  others.  But  they  were  something  more,  as  I 
said  at  the  time  in  a  review  of  them,  and  as  I 
maintained  one  day  at  luncheon  at  Mrs.  Corinne 
Roosevelt  Robinson's,  when  selections  were  read 
by  no  less  a  person  than  Mr.  Witter  Bynner  him 
self.  I  held,  if  I  remember,  that  they  were  in 
many  respects  better  imagism  than  that  they  made 
fun  of,  mauger  Mr.  Bynner's  derision  of  me. 
These  burlesquers,  I  contended,  "  builded  better 
than  they  knew."  Two  years  later  the  secret  of 
"Spectra"  was  out  —  Emanuel  Morgan  was 
Mr.  Bynner,  Anne  Knish  was  Arthur  Davison 
Ficke,  and  the  third  conspirator,  Elijah  Hay,  was 
Marjorie  Allen  Seiffert.  "A  hoax!"  shouted 
the  critics.  It  was  a  hoax,  but  upon  the  scorners 
as  well  as  the  few  who  had  found  authentic  poetry 
in  the  hoaxings.  The  hoaxers  themselves  were 
hoaxed,  for  some  of  their  pseudonymous  perform 
ances  were  better  stuff  than  they  had  ever  done  un 
der  or  over  their  own  names.  Of  the  trio,  at 
least  one  was  thoroughly  subdued  to  that  he 
worked  in  "  spectrically " —  Mr.  Bynner  has 
never  been  able  to  lose  Emanuel  Morgan.  Not 
though  he  deny  him,  as  in  this  verse  which  was 
omitted  from  the  serial  publication  of  "  Songs  of 
the  Beloved  Stranger  "  in  Reedy' s  Mirror,  in 
1918: 


Self-Portrait 

I  saw  myself  sitting  at  the  next  table, 

But  only  in  profile ; 

The  mettle  of  color  was  there 

On  the  cheek-bone, 

And  the  little  crape  mustache, 

Though  not  black  enough, 

And  the  lower  lip 

Drooping  like  a  rope  in  water, 

And  the  nose  curving  to  ruin  like  the  Chinese  wall 

With  its  little  dark  gates  of  old  life  .  .  . 

But  when  the  full  face  turned, 

I  knew  again 

That  there  was  no  such  person. 

That  this  is  a  picture  of  Witter  Bynner  those 
who  know  him  in  the  flesh  will  not  maintain,  but 
it  is  a  picture  of  some  doppleganger;  there  is  some 
such  person,  there  on  the  page,  whom  Mr.  Bynner 
cannot  dislimn.  As  these  poems  appeared  in  The 
Mirror  they  bore  the  title  of  "  Songs  to  the  Un 
known  Lover."  The  title  is  now  changed  to 
"  Songs  of  the  Beloved  Stranger."  Is  Mr.  Byn 
ner  the  Beloved  Stranger  or  the  Unknown  Lover? 
He  may  well  be  both;  surely,  as  the  songs  reveal, 
he  has  part  in  both,  and  both  are  "  spectric,"  both 
speak  with  the  voice  of  Emanuel  Morgan  and  it 
is  the  voice  of  an  authentic  poet  with  a  richer, 
— xvii — 


rarer,  finer,  more  ethereal  tone  than  anything  we 
find  in  the  earlier  work  of  Witter  Bynner.  Here 
is  something  more  than  a  pose.  It  is  the  voice  of 
a  singer  with  a  clearer  vision  and  a  more  moving 
rhythm  than  anything  in  Bynner  before.  Here 
the  poet  is  more  the  master  of  the  mystery  of 
sound  in  the  intensification  or  the  subtler  shading 
of  sense.  He  is  a  better  colorist  too,  and  with  a 
cleaner  etching  line,  and  with  more  delicate  ar 
rangement  in  values.  Mr.  Bynner  wrote  these 
poems  as  Emanuel  Morgan,  and  would  have 
published  them  under  that  name  but  for  editorial 
purposes  of  mystification.  They  are  more  Mor 
gan  than  Bynner.  They  are  the  songs  of  one  who 
says  "  there  was  no  such  person  "  as  himself,  but 
the  reader  of  them  will  know  that  the  beautiful 
Chinese  pictures  here  shown  are  not  the  offgivings 
of  a  non-existent  intelligence. 

Mr.  Bynner  would  seem  to  be  possessed  by  a 
personality  he  conjured  from  his  subliminal  self 
—  it  is  as  if  a  medium  were  lost  in  his  or  her  mys 
terious  "  control."  His  case  is  strikingly  similar 
to  that  of  William  Sharp  who  invented  or  dis 
covered  within  himself  that  Fiona  McLeod,  whose 
forthpourings  so  inestimably  surpassed  in  beauty 
and  in  emotional  content  anything  that  Sharp  ever 
did  as  himself.  Bynner  is  not  so  irretrievably 
swamped  as  a  poet  by  Emanuel  Morgan,  as  was 
Sharp  by  Fiona  McLeod.  There  remains  some 
— win — 


Bynner  —  a  good  deal  in  fact,  unless  it  be  that 
there  always  was  much  Emanuel  Morgan  in  the 
earlier  work  of  Bynner.  We  shall  have  to  leave 
all  this  to  the  psychiatrists,  but  not,  I  hope,  to  the 
psychoanalysts,  one  of  whom  has  discovered  the 
"  incest  motive  "  in  "  Hiawatha!  " 

Mr.  Bynner  went  to  the  Orient  with  Mr.  Ficke 
in  1916.  In  this  book  we  have  the  singing  evi 
dence  of  what  Emanuel  Morgan  saw  there  —  evi 
dence  in  color,  in  sound,  in  scent  —  the  wind 
blown  bells  on  temples,  odors  of  wistaria,  the 
statues  of  jade.  The  poet  "  holds  the  gorgeous 
East  in  fee  "  but  passes  it  on  to  us  in  miniatures, 
or  in  little  carvings  of  exquisite  delicacy.  By  in 
numerable  touches  of  artistry,  seldom  in  broad 
strokes  or  splashes,  the  poet  builds  up  his  scene  and 
elicits  from  it  an  emanation  or  glamour  which  is 
exactly  the  atmosphere  in  which  a  Beloved 
Stranger  and  an  Unknown  Lover  —  both,  as  I 
take  it,  denied  by  their  summoner  —  may  have 
their  being.  It  is  being  of  a  kind,  though  warmer 
and  more  vivid,  with  that  of  those  persons,  like 
figures  half  awakened  into  life  from  dim  tapes 
tries  erstwhile  seen  in  since  violated  Belgium,  who 
play  their  parts  in  the  opalescent  smoky  dream 
dramas  of  Maeterlinck. 

Here,  then,  is  a  mystery  of  poetry  not  only  but 
of  personality,  whether  they  are  songs  of  or  to 
a  Beloved  Stranger  or  an  Unknown  Lover.  It 


is  a  work,  perhaps  esoteric,  certainly  exotic.  But 
however  you  may  explain  it,  it  is  a  work  which 
makes  the  reader  sound  curious  deeps  of  his  un 
suspected  self  in  response  to  the  play  upon  him 
of  the  poet's  curiously  evocative  art. 

WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY. 


•xx — 


THE 
BELOVED  STRANGER 


Book  I 

"You  come  with  the  light  .  .  ." 


Veils 

This  veil 

Of  lavender  and  dawn 

Floats  off 

Invisible, 

And  this  of  purple  noon 

Unwinds  in  wisdom, 

And  this  of  evening 

Twitters,  undulates, 

Dips,  darts, 

And  this  of  night 

Circles  around  me  singing 

To  the  very  edge   and  presence  of  the  young 

moon  — 

And  it  brushes  the  tip 
Like  lips 
Three  times. 


___?—— 


The  Wave 

You  come  with  the  light  on  your  face 
Of  the  turn  of  a  river  from  trees  to  the  open  sun, 
You   are  the  wandering  spirit  of  the  most  be 
loved  place  — 

And  yet  you  are  a  joy  not  there  begun 
Nor  anywhere,  but  always  about  to  be, 
The  invisible  succeeding  crest 
That  follows  from  the  open  sea 
And  shall  be  loveliest. 

I  have  no  language,  hardly  any  word 

To  name  you  with,  I  have  no  flight  of  hands 

To  swim  your  surface  closer  than  a  bird: 

For  endless  changing  countermands 

Your  face  and  blinds  me  blacker  than  a  crest  of 

sun, 

O  joy  not  yet  begun 
But  only  about  to  be, 
O  sweet  invisible  unceasing  wave 
Following  me,  following  me 
Through  the  sea-like  grave ! 


— 4— 


The  Voice 

When  the  dream  of  your  voice  draws  near, 

0  my  stranger, 

1  am  birds,  you  the  wind, 
I  clouds,  you  the  sun, 

I  the  bell,  you  the  tongue. 

At  the  sound  of  your  voice 

There  is  neither  dawn  nor  night, 

Weeping  nor  the  peace  of  death, 

But  only  your  voice 

And  I  replying 

And  you  not  answering, 

A  part  of  my  soul  passing  and  I  not  finding  it 

Though  I  open  the  door  and  stare  out 

When  the  dream  of  your  voice  draws  near, 

O  my  stranger ! 


—5— 


The  Stranger 

Approaching  ever  on  a  winged  horse 

Like  yours 

And  bringing  me  a  living  star, 

Like  this  they  have  all  come  to  me 

And  have  all  left  me, 

All  but  the  beloved  stranger. 

And  it  is  you  this  time 

Who  are  the  beloved  stranger, 

And  I  would  have  you  lean  near  to  me, 

Before  you  leave  me, 

As  the  others  have  all  left  me, 

All  but  the  beloved  stranger 

Who  will  never  leave  me, 

Approaching  ever 

On  a  winged  horse, 

Like  yours, 

Bringing  me  a  living  star  — 

Like  this. 


Dream 

I  had  returned  from  dreaming  — 

When  there  came  the  look  of  you 

And  I  could  not  tell  after  that, 

And  the  sound  of  you 

And  I  could  not  tell, 

And  at  last  the  touch  of  you 

And  I  could  tell  then  less  than  ever, 

Though  I  silvered  and  fell 

As  at  the  very  mountain-brim 

Of  dream. 

For  how  could  the  motion  of  a  shadow  in  a  field 

Be  a  person? 

Or  the  flash  of  an  oriole-wing 

Be  a  smile? 

Or  the  turn  of  a  leaf  on  a  stream 

Be  a  hand? 

Or  a  bright  breath  of  sun 

Be  lips? 

I  can  reach  out  and  out  —  and  nothing  will  be 

there  .  .  . 

None  of  these  things  are  true. 
All  of  them  are  dreams, 
There  are  neither  streams 
Nor  leaves  nor  orioles  nor  you. 
—7— 


Roofs 

I  don't  know  what  it  is 

That  sets  me  flying 

Over  the  roofs  this  morning 

Swift  on  tiptoe, 

Touching  the  chimneys  and  railings. 

Not  even  the  middle  of  roofs, 

Only  the  edges. 

I  don't  know  why  it  is 

So  many  dancers 

Dance  in  my  dawn, 

Hailing  this  hard  city, 

For  most  of  the  dancers  that  lead  me 

Point  in  directions  daily 

Of  mountain  and  of  sea, 

Toward  little  villages 

And  houses  nestling, 

Rivers, 

Hills. 

I  don't  know  what  it  is 

That  sets  me  flying 

Over  the  roofs  this  early  morning 

Swift  on  tiptoe  .  .  . 

You! 

—8— 


Wonder 

Is  it  body? 

Is  it  spirit? 

Is  it  I? 

Is  it  you  ? 

Is  it  the  beloved  strangeness 

Of  a  god? 


—9— 


The  Wall 

How  is  it, 

That  you,  whom  I  can  never  know, 

My  beloved, 

Are  a  wall  between  me  and  those  I  have  known 

well  — 

So  that  my  familiars  vanish 
Farther  than  the  blue  roofs  of  Nankow 
And  are  lost  among  the  desert  hills? 


— 10 — 


Magic 


And  when  I  speak  to  you  of  common  things 
You  receive  them  for  a  moment 
With  candor  and  with  level  eyes, 
Acknowledging  their  right  to  be.  ... 

And  then  always  you  dismiss  them, 
Replacing  them  with  the  long,  true  splendors 
Of  a  steely  fish  cutting  through  rings  of  steel, 
And  you  run  your  fingers  across  a  mountain-side 
Strung  like  a  lyre  with  thin  waters, 
And  you  sheath  the  blade  of  your  body 
In  a  scabbard  of  sea. 

And  the  rock, 

On  which  my  hand  is, 

Becomes  a  firmament 

And  my  head  the  moon 

And  my  feet 

The  people  of  the  earth 

Who  speak  to  us  of  common  things. 


— ii — 


Lightning 

There  is  a  solitude  in  seeing  you, 

Followed  by  your  company  when  you  are  gone. 

You  are  like  heaven's  veins  of  lightning. 

I  cannot  see  till  afterward 

How  beautiful  you  are. 

There  is  a  blindness  in  seeing  you, 

Followed  by  the  sight  of  you  when  you  are  gone. 


12- 


Wings 


At  the  first  footfall  of  an  uncouth  season 
You  migrate  with  a  sudden  wing-sweep 
To  beauty. 

With  you  there  is  no  meantime, 

You  are  now, 

You  are  the  island 

Where  cherries  always  blossom, 

The  nightingale's 

Twenty-four  hours  of  song, 

You  are  the  unbroken  column  by  the  sea. 


Cherry-Blossoms 

A  child, 

Looking  at  you,  a  cherry-bough, 

And  at  me,  a  river, 

Saw  you  and  you,  two  cherry-boughs, 

And  laughed.  .  .  . 

For  run  as  fast  as  ever  I  may, 

My  heart 

Moves  only  with  you, 

Only  with  your  blossoms, 

Remembering  them 

Or  awaiting  them, 

Moving  when  you  move  in  the  wind 

And  still  when  you  are  still. 


—14— 


0 


Hemispheres 

Only  by  remembering  you, 

O  east  of  my  west, 

Can  I  make  my  lovers  real  to  me, 

And  only  by  forgetting  you 

Can  I  find  my  truest  solitude 

Strange  and  unknown  to  me. 


Horses 

Words  are  hoops 

Through  which  to  leap  upon  meanings, 

Which  are  horses'  backs, 

Bare,  moving. 


— 1 6— 


The  Wind 

How  long  must  the  wind  go  round  in  a  mill 
And  the  meaning  be  drawn  ? 

How  long  before  it  shall  climb  a  tree  again 
And  shake  down  shivering  silver? 


—77— 


The  Blue-jay 

I  who  look  up  at  you 

Am  a  blue-jay 

Crested, 

And  my  only  way 

Of  saying  to  you, 

My  sky, 

That  I  have  wings  of  your  color 

Is  — 

Clang! 


Tree-toads 

I  went  as  far  from  myself  as  ever  I  could, 
To  think  of  you.  .  .  . 

I  listened  in  the  night 
To  the  little  fluting  toads 
Safe  from  their  own  images, 
And  I  heard  them  sighing 
With  a  silver  sigh 
For  beauty. 


— ig— 


The  Valley 


Only  I  and  the  sunset 

In  the  snow-valley  of  your  breast 

And  the  slow  shadows  of  the  motion  of  breath, 

Only  I  and  moonrise  in  the  valley  of  your  breast 

And  the  dark  of  sleep  .  .  . 

Until  lilies  in  the  valley  have  opened, 
And  I  am  awake  with  petals 
And  with  the  birds  of  your  voice. 


Nakedness 

Brightness  of  earth  for  the  hollow  of  your  throat 

They  brought  to  you, 

And  blossoms  of  death  for  you  to  throw  away 

And  many  things  like  links  of  chains, 

To  you  whose  wings  are  nakedness. 

But  I  have  given  your  nakedness  the  gift  of  mine, 

And  whosoever  brings,  from  this  day  forth, 

Obeisances 

To  the  hollow  of  your  bosom, 

Shall  find  between  those  hills  of  sun, 

Beloved, 

My  shadow.  .  .  . 


- — 21 — 


Darkness 

Leaping  from  that  other  darkness 

Come  two  circles  of  flame  — 

When  the  pressure  of  your  lips 

Made  of  my  eyes 

Two  suns 

Embracing  the  world  with  light  .  .  . 

It  was  a  darkness 

As  rich  with  strong  wonder 

As  the  depths  of  the  sea, 

And  you  were  upon  me 

Like  great  sea-gardens 

And  great  waves  .  .  . 

What  shall  I  care,  not  seeing  you  now  in  the 
dark?  — 

For  you  have  fulfilled  all  darkness 

With  light, 

To  which  I  need  not  even  open  my  eyes. 


— 22 — 


Fear 

This  day  has  come, 

Like  an  idiot,  blank  and  dumb, 

Over  a  lonely  road 

Under  lonely  skies. 

And  though  at  first  I  whistled  and  strode 

Like  a  strong  man  showing  no  fear, 

Yet  I  am  afraid,  afraid  of  this  day, 

You  not  being  here, 

And  I  look  back  and  back  at  this  uncouth  day, 

You  not  being  here, 

And  my  heart  is  in  my  mouth  because  of  its  eyes, 

In  which  nothing  is  clear. 


— 23— 


Sigh 

Still  must  I  tamely 

Talk  sense  with  these  others? 

How  long 

Before  I  shall  be  with  you  again, 

Magnificently  saying  nothing! 


—24— 


Singing 


What  is  this  singing  I  hear 
Of  the  sun  behind  clouds? 

It  is  not  long  before  you  shall  come  to  me, 
Beloved. 

And  that  is  the  singing  I  lean  to  hear 
In  my  side, 
Where  your  bird  is. 


—25— 


Summons 

Sail  into  my  sight, 

Till  the  sunlight  gathers  only  upon  you 
And  the  blues  of  the  water 
Encircle  you. 

Though  you  have  sailed  no  farther  from  me 
Than  a  quiet  bay 
Beyond  a  point  of  cedars, 
Yet  you  have  been  as  far  away 
As  death. 


Mist 

Between  a  high  shadow  of  hay  and  of  hills 

And  the  deep  glen  mothering  the  sound  of  its 
waters, 

I  climb  up  into  the  dark  — 

Then  slowly  back  again, 

Because  it  is  so  far  to  you. 

And  I  lean  against  the  misty  fence  of  the  morn 
ing  .  .  . 

Till  suddenly 

The  mist  goes  smouldering  down  the  world 

Before  the  stream 

Of  dawn, 

Like  mice 

Before  wings. 


—27— 


Climbing 

The  mist  on  the  mountain  is  gone  now.  .  .  . 

I  have  climbed  many  roads  to  see  the  mountain, 

I  have  ventured  many  people  to  see  you, 
Peak  of  golden  sun, 
Beloved  face. 


— 28— 


Crystal 


Between  your  laughter  and  mine 

Lies  the  shadow  of  the  sword  of  change. 

Yours  is  innocent. 
Mine  knows 

You  had  sat  abstracted 

By  the  touch  of  dreaming  strings 

Of  an  old  guitar  — 

When  in  the  centre  of  the  room 

A  crystal  dish  cracked  for  no  reason. 

Then  you  darted  with  joy  to  the  fragments, 
Like  a  fish  to  a  crumb, 

And  held  between  your  thumbs  and  your  fingers 
Two  pieces  of  laughter. 


—29— 


Dusk 

Dusk  came  over  the  hill  to  me, 

Holding-  a  red  moon, 

And  I  danced  with  her, 

Feeling  and  following  her  starry  steps, 

Till  she  turned  and  gave  the  moon 

To  the  swarthy  night  — 

And  slipped  away  without  explaining. 


-30— 


The  Boatmen 

<*, 

A  nearing  benison  of  boatmen  singing  .  .  . 
Can  they  be  bringing  to  me  a  new  wonder? 

They  are  waiting  in  the  night,  as  for  a  passen 
ger  ... 
But  who  would  embark  now  with  no  light  at  all? 

The  dark  is  shaking  like  a  tambourine  .  .  . 
They  are  taking  my  old  wonder. 


The  Cataract 

Over  the  edge  of  the  days 

My  wonder  has  fallen 

To  be  scattered  and  lost  away, 

Down  from  the  temples  of  my  love  of  you  .  .  . 

From  the  temples  of  blue  jade 

The  downward  flight  of  all  the  Chinese  angels 

Diving  together, 

With  their  white  phoenixes  attendant, 

Plumes,   arms,   voices  intertwirling, 

All  heaven  falling, 

Green  with  the  touch  of  earth 

Grievous  with  laughter, 

Embracing,  thrown  apart, 

And  then,  below, 

Inwound  for  the  upward  flight  again, 

The  crested  flight, 

To  the  temples  of  white  jade  .  .  . 

To  the  changing  temples  of  my  love  of  you. 


—32— 


Autumn 

Last  year,  and  other  years, 

When  autumn  was  a  vision  of  old  friendships, 

Of  friends  gone  many  ways, 

I  stood  alone  upon  a  bank  of  coppered  fern, 

I  breathed  my  height  of  isolation, 

Encircled  by  a  remembering  countryside. 

I  touched  dead  fingers  in  a  larch  .  .  . 

I  sailed  on  long  blue  waves  of  land 

Flowing  transfixed  the  whole  horizon  round  .  .  . 

I  wore  the  old  imperial  robes 

Of  aster,  sumac,  golden-rod  .  .  . 

I  flaunted  my  banners  of  maple  .  .  . 

And,  when  the  sun  went  down, 

I  lay  full  length 

Upon  a  scarlet  death-bed. 

So  kingly  a  thing  was  autumn, 

Other  years. 

But  here  you  stand  beside  me  on  this  hill, 

And  shake  your  head  and  smile  your  smile 

And  twist  these  things  lightly  between  your  fingers 

As  a  pinch  of  dust  — 

And  bare  your  throat 

And  show  me  only  spring, 

Spring,  spring, 

Fluttering  like  your  slender  side, 

Cascading  like  your  hair. 

—33— 


Weariness 

There  is  a  dear  weariness  of  love  .  .  . 
Hand  relaxed  in  hand, 
Shoulder  at  rest  upon  shoulder. 

And  to  me  that  pool  of  weariness  is  more  won 
derful 

Than  crater,  cataract, 
Maelstrom,  earthquake  .   .  . 

For  it  is  a  double  pool 

In  which  lie,  silent, 

The  golden  fishes  of  sleep. 


— 34— 


The  Hour 


I  was  glad  of  the  night  that  hid  my  face 

For  your  hand  touching  me 
Was  the  stroke  of  an  hour 
In  sickness, 
Was  the  fire  of  ice. 


— 35— 


Lament 

There  is  a  chill  deeper  than  that  of  death, 

In  the  return  of  the  beloved  and  not  of  love. 

And  there  is  no  warmth  for  it 

But  the  warmth  of  a  world  which  needs  more  than 

the  sun  — 

Or  the  warmth  of  lament  for  beauty, 
Which  is  graven  on  many  stones. 

And  yet  I  would  be  with  you  a  little  while, 
Dear  ghost. 

I  will  endure  even  the  marsh-mist  on  my  throat 
And  the  fingers  of  the  moon. 


-36- 


The  Skeleton 

I  keep  my  closet  neat  now, 
The  skeleton  well  covered. 

But  when  you  even  walk  by  the  locked  door, 

The  breezes  of  your  look 

Stir  what  hangs  inside  — 

And  I  wonder  what  you  are  hearing 

When  those  knee-bones  knock  together. 


— 37— 


The  Crowfo 


And  it  is  you 

For  whom  the  sun  and  all  the  stars 

Made  but  a  starveling's  crown, 

So  azure  was  your  presence 

And  so  beamed  with  light. 

You  were  the  earth  in  which  I  would  have  laid 

me  down, 

The  sea  in  which  I  would  have  drowned. 
But  the  earth  is  dead  now 
And  the  sea  cold, 
And  the  sun  and  all  the  stars  now 
Are  changed  — 

Leaving  your  head  dishonored  and  uncrowned  .  .  . 
The  sun  is  an  ache  on  my  own  temples  now 
And  the  moon  an  icy  cap,  my  cap, 
The  cap  of  a  fool, 
And  I  shake  the  stars  for  bells. 


—38— 


The  Moon 

Red  leaped 

The  moon, 

From  behind  the  black  hill  of  night  .  . 

And  soon  it  was  silver  forever 

And  there  was  no  change  .  .  . 

Until  its  time  came  .  .  . 

And  its  setting  was  as  white  as  a  corpse, 
Among  the  flowers  of  dawn. 


—39— 


An  End 

As  though  it  mattered, 

As  though  anything  mattered  — 

Even  laughter! 

For  in  the  end  there  shall  be  no  one  to  tell 
Whether  it  was  laughter 
Or  weeping. 


— 40— 


Divertisement 

I  change  my   ceremony  .  .    " 


/  Change 

I  wonder  how  it  happens 

I  was  made 
A  foe  of  agate 

And  a  friend  of  jade, 

Yet  have  become. 

Unwisely  I'm  afraid, 
The  friend  of  agate 

And  the  foe  of  jade  — 

So  that  I  wish,  by  dying, 

To  be  made 
Careless  of  agate, 

Careless  of  jade. 


—43— 


/  Remember 


There  was  an  hour 

W 'hen  we  could  love  and  laugh  .  .  . 

And  after  that  hour  we  went  like  revellers  in  madness 

And  the  touch  of  the  pavement  was  a  kiss 

And  the  street-corners  were  embraces, 

And  the  height  of  cities  was  our  height  over  people 

And  the  height  of  stars  our  height  over  cities 

And  the  height  of  heaven  our  height  over  stars. 

And  the  height  of  God's  throne  would  have  been  our 

height  over  heaven. 
But  for  our  mirth, 

Which  shook  vertically  through  heaven 
And  unashamed. 


—44— 


/  Drift 


Shod  in  little  winds, 

Or  leaves,  or  snow, 

My  feet  shall  drift  across  the  moonlight 

How  plumed  they  were  with  direction 

In  those  other  days 

How  winged  with  mirth!  — 

But  now  they  shall  drift 
And  be  still. 


—45— 


I  Gamble 

I  threw  the  dice  with  Death, 

I  won. 

Again  I  won. 

Death  only  smiled  .  .  . 

But  so  did  the  deep-bosomed  toad, 

And  the  birch 

Winked  its  pencilled  eyes. 


-46- 


I  Leer 

If  I  might  be  tall  negroes  in  procession, 

Carrying  each  of  them  a  rib  of  you, 

And  a  cannibal-king  bearing  your  collar-bones, 

One  in  my  right  hand,  one  in  my  left, 

And  touching  my  forehead  with  them  at  slow  intervals, 

Might  I  not  be  too  comforted 

To  weep? 

If  my  love  had  only  consumed  you, 

Not  left  you  unconsumed, 

Might  not  the  moon  have  silvered  me  with  content, 

Oiled  me  like  the  long  edges  of  palms? 


—47— 


/  Compute 


I  am  a  miser  of  my  memories  of  you 

And  will  not  spend  them. 

When  they  were  anticipations 

I  spent  them 

And  bought  you  with  them, 

But  now  I  have  exchanged  you  for  memories, 

And  I  will  only  pour  them  from  one  hand  into  the  other 

And  back  again, 

Listening  to  their 

Clink, 

Till  someone  comes 

Worth  using  them 

To  buy  .  .  . 

Then  I  will  change  them  again  into  anticipations. 


I  Stab 


Love  embalms  the  moments. 
Art  stabs  the  years. 
Love  is  the  careful  undertaker. 
Art  is  the  beloved  assassin.  .  . 
Let  me  wear  a  black  glove  then 
With  a  knife  in  it! 


/  Listen 

I  hear  a  robin  chuckling  — 
/  change  my  ceremony. 

From  my  hearse  of  winter, 

From  my  coffin  of  you, 

I  start  up  and  wave  my  hand. 

For  who  has  returned, 
Curtseying  in  the  shape  of  a  tree, 
But  spring! 


—50— 


I  Leap 


I  loved  you 
And  you  are  gone. 

And  since  there  is  so  much  landscape, 
Why  then  should  I  care, 
Having  loved  you, 
That  you  are  gone? 

Shall  I, 

Who  have  been  like  a  mountain-top, 
Crawl  prostrate  to  the  sea?  — 
Or  leap  like  a  cliff f 


f»    T 


I  Hope 


I  must  throw  out  my  net  for  the  silver  sides 

Of  fish  like  the  brows  of  Chinese  brides 

Or  the  round  and  red-eyed  fish  of  woe 

Slipped  from  the  waves  of  the  after-glow 

Or  for  one  small  airy,  watery  flier 

With  a  fin  of  cloud  and  a  wing  of  fire!  — 

/  must  throw  out  my  net  —  though  I  only  bring  in 

Weeds  and  weazened  terrapin  .  .  . 


—52— 


/  Evade 

The  look  in  your  eyes 

Was  as  soft  as  the  underside  of  soap  in  a  soap-dish 

And  I  left  before  you  could  love  me. 


—53' 


/  Find 

The  darkness  of  your  face, 

That  darkness  as  of  olive-trees, 

That  darkness  of  warm  earth, 

Once  gave  the  whiteness  of  the  Parthenon 

Its  living  beauty  .  .  . 

Your  face  a  wine-cup 

For  the  blood  of  grapes, 

Your  smiles  bright-weaving  shadows  of  the  vine, 

Make  me  a  wreath  of  them, 

Give  me  a  cup  in  the  sunlight 

Of  the  blood  of  grapes! 


—54— 


/  Wonder 

In  my  desert  of  familiars 

Time  rocked  like  a  camel  under  me, 

Ungainly,  heaving  minutes. 

Shaggy  hours, 

Four  feet  gathering  into  a  season, 

Trailing  into  years  .  .  . 

O  sullen-swaying  ship, 

Is  this  difference  the  shadow  of  palm-trees  f 
Or  only  the  shifting  of  my  familiars, 
The  sands? 


—55— 


/  Drink 


Wine  is  a  worship  .  .  . 

Blue  peas 

Are  set  in  rows 

In  pods  of  lapis  lazuli 

When  gods  eat, 

And  though  oysters 

Are  white  as  dawn  and  singing 

From  the  sea  — 

The  hearts  of  hummingbirds 

Are  black  as  a  storm 

In  summer. 


-56- 


/  Kill 

I  stood  between  you  and  the  hills  .  .  . 

Sorrowful  hunter  that  I  was, 

The  wings  of  your  mouth  ceased  flying 

Because  I  killed  them  with  a  kiss. 

And  the  rest  of  your  wings  flew  away 
Into  the  sunset. 


—57— 


/  Accuse 


You  have  words 

But  nothing  hangs  on  them. 

They  gleam 

On  the  moulding  of  your  mouth 

Like  empty  picture-hooks. 

Even  when  you  say  you  love  me, 
There's  but  a  frame  — 
With  neither  me  in  it 
Nor  yourself. 


-58- 


/  Urge 


Out  of  the  woods  you  peer, 

And  your  eyes 

Are  like  the  desolate  moon 

Thawing. 

And  there  are  leaves  in  your  hand, 
Not  withered. 

And  there  are  words  in  your  heart, 
Never  used  .  .  . 

Bring  me  your  words,  your  leaves,  your  eyes, 

Beloved  stranger, 

We  have  outlived  the  moon  .  .  . 


— 59— 


/  Answer 

When  you  are  asking,  by  these  lips  that  touch, 
Whether  death  is  nothing  or  is  much, 

I  am  but  answering  your  waves  of  hair, 

II  Beloved,  O  beloved,  who  shall  care!  " 


— 60 — 


/  Laugh 


Now  when  embers  whisper 

And  mice  cry  in  the  wall 

And  a  chair  in  the  dark  crosses  its  legs  — 

/  am  thinking  of  one 

Of  whom  I  shall  not  be  thinking  some  later  night 

W 'hen  embers  exclaim 

And  mice  laugh  in  the  wall 

And  the  chair  in  the  dark  uncrosses  its  legs. 


/  Sigh 

You  passed  as  quick  and  unknown 
As  the  shadow  of  wings 
On  sun-closed  lids 
By  the  sea. 


—62— 


/  Forget 


The  manifold 

Red  metal  of  your  hair,  vibrant  like  a  bell, 

Made,  when  you  moved,  a  delicate  old  din 

As  of  Spanish  gold 

Brought  shining  with  a  deep-sea  spell 

From  where  dead  men  have  been, 

And  to  see  one  glint  of  the  crystalline 

Blue  magic  of  your  eyes 

Was  to  be  lighter  than  with  the  first 

Breath  of  bluebells  after  the  worst 

Of  winters  —  was  to  lean 

Upon  the  skies. 

But  when  your  spring  shall  have  ending 

And  your  gold  be  done  spending, 

The  metal  in  the  earth  of  you  shall  go  its  way 

And  in  some  other  heart  tiian  mine  a  bluebell  sway. 


/  Exclaim 


How  can  you  like  it,  women!  — 

To  be  the  solemn  quips  of  bright  despair, 

Angels  in  a  graveyard, 

Monuments  of  mist  on  a  grass-blade 

Tears  of  the  laughing  moment, 

Smiles  of  unsmiling  time! 


-64- 


I  Look 

I  have  left  you  behind, 

You  lovers  talking  poetry, 

You  poets  talking  love, 

And  as  I  look  back  at  the  yellow  windows 

Of  your  dark  little  house, 

Smoke,  going  up  from  your  chimney, 

Smiles  into  the  night, 

Circles  into  a  halo, 

Between  the  noise  of  two  cats 

And  the  quiet  of  the  north  star. 


-65- 


/  Enter 


Into  the  night  comes  the  blind  man  again, 
Seeing  a  god  with  his  feet, 
And  smiling  with  his  cane 
At  what  we  think  we  see. 

He  climbs  an  infinite  pagoda f 

Each  hour  a  new  roof 

Tinkling  to  his  touch. 

He  breathes  incense, 

And  a  star  is  set  in  each  palm 

And  in  his  heart  a  vase 

For  dew. 


/  Swim 


Beyond  the  fluctuating  pulse  of  flesh, 
Its  agile  and  interminable  change, 
I  am  enamored  of  the  rocks  and  sun, 
Their  bodily  firm  warmth,  their  passionate  calm 
If  woman  I  must  have,  give  me  the  sea, 
Colder  and  stronger,  closer,  more  suave 
Than  women,  her  wave  winding  on  my  breast 
For  the  embrace,  the  shock,  the  ecstasy. 
Her  white-veined  arm  of  foam  upraised  in  air 
To  throw  me  back  upon  the  beach  of  sleep. 


-67- 


/  Lean 


Close  to  the  moving  sands, 
I  lean  upon  the  desirable  dead, 
Twining  their  fingers  with  mine, 
The  dead 
Who  are  eased 
Of  their  love. 

But  the  waves  come  in  — 
Alive. 


—68— 


/  Vanish 


Inrushing 

Life, 

Life, 

Life, 

Outrushing  again, 

And  all  in  touch  — 

Even  this  little  moment 

Thrown  bubbling, 

Iridescent, 

Gone. 


Book  II 

"  Like  an  arrow  you  come  .  .  ." 


The  Canyon 

It  is  the  dead  sex  of  the  earth 
On  which  the  sun  still  gazes. 

It  is  all  the  mountains  of  love, 
Into  whose  sarcophagus 
Peers 
The  moon. 


— 73— 


Birds 

I  should  not  find  the  pain  so  hard  to  bear, 
Of  lying  bound  upon  the  world, 
If  only  daily  there  were  birds,  like  yours,  Prome 
theus, 

To  tear  from  me 
This  unquenched  heart. 


•74— 


Ruins 

O,  to  be  back  in  heaven, 

Beyond  hope, 

Beyond  the  mountain-circled  and  forgotten  dead, 

Beyond  the  curling  waves  of  buried  stone ! 

Can  I  who  have  seen  heaven  decaying 
Become  enzealed  for  the  earth, 
Whose  ruins  cannot  be 
So  vast  and  beautiful 
As  the  ruins  of  heaven ! 


—75— 


The  Arrow 

Now  like  an  arrow  you  come,  sped  by  an  angel, 

Tipped  with  the  spirit  of  wings  and  pointed  with 
pain  — 

Only  from  heaven  could  fall  the  dart  of  your  pres 
ence 

Blinding  as  the  lightning,  blown  as  summer  rain. 

Herald  of  heaven  you  are  and  the  dancing  height 
jf  wonder, 

Visible  soul  of  singing,  moving  breath  of 
breath  .  .  . 

The  dancers  of  the  earth  aspire  to  be  winged  al 
ways. 

But  you  are  the  dancer  of  heaven,  yearning  for 
death. 

How  I  ache  to  ease  you,  reaching  with  my  fingers, 
Straining  with  my  heart,  through  the  empty  air! 
I  would  take  your  beauty  into  my  hands  and 

break  it 
And  stand  before  you  breathless  and  be  the  perfect 

slayer. 

Must  you  still  in  heaven  dance  with  all  the  angels 
And  weary  of  them,  leave  them  and  wander  down 

the  sky, 

Living,  living,  living,  living,  living,  living, 
Yearning  and  dancing,  and  no  way  to  die  ? 

—76- 


The  Dust 

Where  you  go  I  follow  you, 

Rather  I  run  before, 
And  here  I  am  when  you  return, 

Waiting  by  your  door  .  .  . 
I  am  the  dust  upon  your  face, 

The  wind  that  worries  you, 
I  am  your  beggar  and  your  hound, 

Your  leaf  of  grass,  your  shoe. 


—77— 


Cactus 

They  flush  with  their  love  and  fill  their  breasts 

with  it 

And  say  short  words,  not  knowing  what  they  say, 
Their  meetings  have  contents  and  covers, 
Jewels  and  lids.  .  .   . 

They  can  count  their  love. 

How  different,  O  beloved  stranger, 

Have  our  meetings  been, 

When  I  may  not  say  my  love !  — 

Meetings  of  mountain  and  desert, 

Open  to  the  wind, 

With  snow  far-off,  like  a  cry, 

And  on  edges  of  cactus 

Red  drops 

Of  the  blood  of  silence. 


—78- 


A  Ghost 

You  leaned  against  me, 

Humming  a  slow  song 

Of  purple  shadows  .  .  . 

Showers  and  javelins  and  shooting-stars 

Fell  through  me  where  you  leaned  .  .  . 

Whose  ghost  was  I? 


— 79— 


Touch 

Someone  was  there  .  .  . 

I  put  out  my  hand  in  the  dark 
And  felt 
The  long  hair 
Of  the  wind. 


No  Ease 

I  will  not  think  of  you  too  much, 

Lest  I  become  as  a  king  of  olden  hell, 

Surrounded  by  a  ring  of  flame. 

And  it  is  a  trouble  to  you, 
And  no  ease  to  me. 

For  if  I  thought  of  you  too  much, 

I  should  fall  through  space 

And  there  would  be  no  world  for  me  at  all. 

And  I  can  still  go  about  the  world 
As  patient  as  a  beggar  with  one  arm, 
As  valiant  as  a  crab  with  one  quick  claw 
If  I  do  not  think  of  you  too  much. 


—8 1— 


Laurel 

I  will  not  call  you  beautiful  again, 
Though  my  throat  ache  with  the  silence  of  refrain 
ing, 

And  not  a  sigh  will  I  explain, 
Though  my  hands  fill  with  explaining  .  .  . 

For  you  are  as  beautiful  as  a  hill  I  know 
In  spring,  breathing  with  light  — 
But  as  soon  as  I  told  you,  a  chill  like  snow 
Covered  and  turned  you  white. 

I  will  not  call  you  beautiful  again, 

Your  labyrinthine  loveliness  I  will  not  name. 

I  will  be  silent  as  forgotten  men 

Dead  beyond  blame. 

No  matter  how  your  airs  of  spring  beguile, 
Be  it  my  fortitude,  my  business,  my  endeavor, 
Not  to  acclaim  the  laurel  of  your  smile  — 
Except  to-day,  to-morrow  and  forever ! 


—82— 


Snows 

Which  is  it  now, 

You  who  lived  once  by  the  chill  height? 

Is  this  whiteness  of  yours 

Snow  of  the  winter 

Hard-shining  in  the  sun, 

Or  snows  returning  two  months  after  snow, 

Snows  of  narcissus, 

Drifting  over  you  — 

O  coldest,  sweetest  body? 


-83- 


Certainty 

Does  it  mean  nothing  to  you  that  I  love  you?  .  .  . 
It  would  mean  as  little  were  I  Michael  Angelo. 
You  would  put  out  your  dancing  fingers, 
Those  quick  hands, 
And  say,  "  No,  do  not  love  me" 

But  that  is  what  I  love, 
Your  certainty  — 
Of  which  on  all  the  earth 
There  is  very  little. 


Gates 

I  had  answered  them, 
"  But  I  am  left  with  no  desire, 
For  I  have  known  a  happiness 
Whose  memory  is  all  my  need" 

The  camel  lounges  through  another  gate. 

You  answer  now, 
"  But  I  am  left  with  no  desire, 
For  I  have  known  a  happiness 
Whose  memory  is  all  my  need!9 


-85- 


The  Jewel 

0  I  have  been  in  a  far  land 
And  seen  a  lofty  gate 

And  a  camel-train  sway  toward  the  sand 
With  chrysoprase  for  freight  — 

And  seen  a  lady  with  a  ring 
That  led  me  like  an  eye, 

And  whichever  way  her  hand  would  swinj 
That  way  swung  I. 

1  followed  like  a  poppy-fool, 

Calling  where  she  went, 
"  O  take  my  soul  and  make  it  cool, 

Unwind  my  cerement!  " — 
And  still  the  coal-black  jewel  swung 

Before  me,  left  and  right, 
Like  a  chant  the  sea  had  sung 

On  a  windy  night. 
Like  dust  behind  her  camel's  hoof, 

I  followed  in  the  road 
To  the  golden-rippling  roof 

Of  her  august  abode. 
She  turned  to  see  whom  her  ring  had  led 

And  turned  away  again 
Into  a  palace  carven  red 

With  dead  desires  of  men. 
—86— 


The  passion  in  my  feet  was  spent. 

I  stood  before  a  wall 
As  wide  as  the  firmament, 

As  final  and  as  tall. 


Pain 

Yes,  life  has  curious  ways,  and  I  to  you 
Am  little  more  than  anyone  might  be. 
But  I  cannot  lose  you  any  more,  my  love. 

I  cannot  see  you  any  more,  my  love, 
For  if  I  do  not  see  you  I  have  eyes 
But  if  I  see  you  I  have  none  at  all. 

I  cannot  love  you  any  more,  my  love, 
For  if  I  do  not  love  you  I  have  peace 
But  if  I  love  you  I  have  none  at  all. 

It  was  a  cruel  thing  when  you  were  born, 
For  I  had  always  pain  of  missing  you 
But  finding  you  at  last,  that  was  the  pain. 


88^ 


Opium 


Like  an  opium-lover, 

I  banish  you, 

All  thought  of  you. 

But  wherever  I  send  you, 

Your  two  arms  entwine  me, 

Drawing  me  there  with  you 

Into  exile. 


— 89— 


The  Fire-Mountain 

Forget  you  ?  — 

Can  that  Hawaiian  volcano 

Forget  its  quick  fountains  and  cascades 

Of  fire? 


Flame 

Is  it  your  fault 

That  winds  from  heaven  sweep  through  me  and 
I  call  it  you? 

Is  it  your  fault 

That  the  chin  and  throat  of  you  are  the  curve 

Of  a  mountain-brook  where  I  would  drink, 

That  your  whole  body  is  a  heap  of  stinging  sweet 
ness  from  the  pines, 

That  when  you  sleep  your  silence  is  an  arch  of  the 
moon,  your  motion  thunder  of  the  moon, 

And  when  you  wake  your  eyes  are  the  long  path 
of  ocean  to  a  new  burning, 

To  a  nest  of  phoenixes 

Whose  golden  wings 

Are  tipped  with  flame? 

Is  it  your  fault 

That  phoenixes  arise  from  fire  — 

And  dragons? 


— 07— 


Fire 

In  the  interval  you  answered  me 

Like  a  fire : 

"But  these  hands'9 

(They  were  stretched  toward  me) 

"  Are  for  the  hands  of  another, 

These  lips  " 

(They  were  curved  and  strange) 

"  Are  for  the  lips  of  another , 

And  there  is  someone  for  whom  these  eyes 

Can  gleam 

As  they  never  can  for  you." 

So  answering  me, 

You  let  your  bright  thigh  touch  me 

And  my  throat  rest  across  yours 

And  your  breast  heave  with  mine, 

While  your  face  crouched  afar  from  me 

like  an  escaping  slave 
And  your  hands  fell  fainting  .  .  . 
And  into  me,  even  now  as  I  hold  you, 
Roll  all  the  waste  spaces  of  the  world, 
Desert  after  desert. 


The  Dead 

Since  you  bequeath  your  living  face 

And  leave  your  throat  for  me  to  lean  my  eyes 

against, 

As  though  the  one  I  loved  the  uttermost  had  died 
And  willed  me  all  her  golden  benefits, 
Am  I  not  happy  then  ?  .  .  . 

O  largesse  of  the  dead ! 
O  vaulted  throat ! 


Candles 

Your  eyes  are  not  eyes  — 
They  never  laugh. 

Your  arms  and  ankles  laugh, 
Your  lips  twinkle  incessantly, 
Your  cheek  is  bland  with  mirth, 
Your  winged  ear  flashes  backward  — 
But  your  eyes  never  laugh. 

You  do  your  best  to  arrange  differently: 
You  heap  your  eyes  round  with  playthings, 
You  tell  them  rippling  ribaldries, 
,You  dress  them  harlequin  and  clown 
And  send  them  skipping  — 
But  they  never  laugh. 

Many  people,  impelled  by  the  bright  altar  of 

your  face, 

Come  into  the  temple, 
Now  knowing  that  they  cannot  see  your  eyes 

at  all, 

Nor  you  theirs. 
And  they  worship  familiarly; 
While  I,  looking  close,  am  afraid, 
— 94— 


For  I  see  only  a  niche  and  candles 
A  circle  of  hard  flames 
Around  an  unknown  god. 


—95— 


Peace 

When  I  am  crucified  upon  his  brow, 
Will  the  strange  god  be  at  peace  ? 


-96- 


The  Bell 

Beloved  stranger, 

You  who  were  a  god 

With  a  temple, 

Where  are  you  now 

Among  these  dragon-tiles, 

Among  these  broken  walls? 

Are  you  too  become  dust? 

Or  do  you  hear  the  solitary  bell 

Beside  the  single  arch  still  standing 

Of  the  gateway  which  once  led  to  you? 

Do  you  hear  the  wind 

Which  moves  me  to  these  whispers, 

You  who  were  a  god? 

Do  you  hear  the  sand 

Drifting  in  your  temple? 

Do  you  hear  me,  me,  me  — 

The  solitary  bell 

Beside  the  single  arch  still  standing 

Of  the  gateway  which  once  led  to  you? 


—97— 


The  Cup 

Shall  the  wound  of  the  world  be  my  wound, 
That  I  cannot  shake  off  the  cold  hands  of  clay? 

I  have  seen  a  golden-white  face,  young  and  close 

to  mine, 

Dear  and  unknown,  waken  and  vanish  away, 
I  have  seen  the  most  deeply-known  of  all  faces 

deepen  and  vanish  away, 
I  have  distilled  from  the  sun 
And  from  the  cool  of  evenings  and  of  dawns 
And  from  the  beauty  of  all  my  strangers,  one  by 

one, 
My  potion.     I  have  drunk  my  fill  ... 

0  let  me  lift  the  cup  to  you,  strange  god,  to  say 
That  I  have  no  more  will 

To  shake  off  now  the  moon-cold  hands  of  clay. 

1  drain  the  cup  to  you,  white  stranger,  who  arrive 
Silent  —  silent  with  the  wound  of  the  world,  my 

wound. 


The  God 

Burn  my  body, 
Disperse  me  in  many  beds, 
That  at  last  none  may  follow 
Into  my  wide  solitude 
But  the  strange  god  .  .  . 
The  beloved. 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


